


Remember Us

by Miku



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst, Drama, Drugs, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, prepare to have your heart ripped out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:44:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miku/pseuds/Miku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year and half after the apocalypse Arthur finally finds what he's been looking for all this time; Eames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember Us

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the whole thing listening to Post-Rock music... If you're familiar with this genre, you are most likely prepared for the onslaught of feels.  
> Warnings: This is sad, no happy end, character death. 
> 
> Have fun.

**Remember Us.**

 

It all ended with a bang, much like life had started with one yet it was doubtful that that _as well_ had taken place at midnight on a December thirty-first. It took three weeks before Arthur could so much as grimace at the irony.

Uncertainty still lingered on the (by now) fading lines of broadcasting news. Arthur found more difficulty each passing day to find radio-signal, but whenever he did he ended up with no relevant or new information.

_‘Alien atta-… Maybe nuclea-… omb-. –ill unknown a-… some fa-… virus-… -eadly… lethal measu-… no evide-…’_

The world was still uncertain as to what had happened to it. Survivors were scarce and those left were hostile and would rather run than reach out a helping hand.  
Not that Arthur desired to grab onto someone and beg them to help him out… He was in complete control of the situation after all. Well… as much as was possible after three weeks of dragging yourself through the freshly-occurred apocalypse.

Besides, what’s left to do when more than ninety percent of human kind had been swiped from the surface? Arthur didn’t have family to look for, his parents having died when he’d been barely eight years old.

Even Dom was gone. His children as well, though Arthur chose to ignore this fact for as long as he’d survive roaming this earth with its dying resources and hostile inhabitants.  
Ariadne was gone as well. Arthur didn’t like to linger on this thought as it brought back the memories of seeing her set on fire, by one of the cars that had exploded at the meteor’s impact, and burning alive as she’d screamed bloody murder.

They’d been in Paris at the time. In the warehouse.

Somehow it all had begun in Paris...  
  
The meteors, bombs, alien invasion, whatever-the-fuck it was that had happened, had struck the world out of nowhere.  
There had been not a single mentioning of it on the news beforehand and though the impact had been far away from the warehouse, it had still been powerful enough to shatter glass and blow up nearby cars.

Arthur, through some sickening luck, had been the only one to survive the blow in the warehouse. He’d crawled out from beneath the ruins almost an hour later. Some of his ribs had been battered, broken pinkie, scratches and bruises, black eye, dislocated jaw (which he managed to pop back in place after half an hour trying), and to this day he was still fucking deaf in his right ear, but other than that he got out fine.

The rest of the team hadn’t.

Well, except for Eames.

Eames hadn’t been in the warehouse, had not even been in Paris or France, Arthur’s researches earlier that morning had told him. The last location he’d seen flashing on his computer screen about Eames’ whereabouts had been Los Angeles.

“Los Angeles.” Arthur whispered to himself as his feet dragged him over hot asphalt.  
The last car he’d stolen had run out of gasoline and Arthur’s next mission now was to find another vehicle and hopefully a gas station to stock up on fuel.  
His main goal was getting to Los Angeles though he doubted that Eames would be alive and well and if he were, he’d not have stayed in his apartment there. Cities were dangerous, too many pumped up people, plundering and thieving around.  
It was impossible to live in a home. It was much more smart and safe to hideout somewhere deserted.

Arthur, if he’d calculated correctly, was about two days away from Los Angeles. His mobile phone which he only turned on every other day, once more failed to find a signal as he called Eames’ cell.

He chose to turn it off once more and pocket it, optioning instead to try and find a broadcast on the portable radio he’d found in a van that he’d stolen back in France.

_‘… k-… weather as w-… damage-… body-cou-…. Over-.’_

Same news as always. Meteors, eerie change of weather, nearly all earth’s population dead.

Arthur knew Eames was dead, he was sure of it. It was just the last lie he could fool himself with to keep going, to keep surviving. He needed to keep going… what would be the point to survive in such a rotten world when you had no one to cry it over with?

Inevitably Eames had been the most important person in Arthur’s life and it hurt him dearly he’d never been able to tell him so.  
Even if the man was gone… he needed to try and find out for sure. He needed closure.

Arthur kept going. He had to.  
He had to get to Los Angeles even if it were the last thing he’d do.

* * *

 

 

Arthur roamed Los Angeles for two weeks before moving on because local citizens were beginning to get hostile of the man who was obviously armed and had a backpack full of food alongside weaponry.

He returned after a month. Stayed for five days, then went back higher up north where he’d found a hideout in the sewers.

He returned once more after two months, stayed for three days, went even higher up north, found himself a hideout in a tiny forest.

Six months later he once more returned.

Arthur by now was skin over bones, dark hair covered the lower half of his face. His phone had died months ago, as well as the portable radio.  
He was alone now, officially alone. No more broadcasts and he hadn’t even seen a living human being in the past eight weeks.

Eames was dead and still Arthur continued going back to Los Angeles. Eames’ apartment was merely a heap underneath the collapsed skeleton of the building which had caved underneath the weight of the apocalypse.  
But Arthur kept returning to that heap as if it would bring him answers.

It took another two months before Arthur revisited Los Angeles and finally broke down in tears on the ruins of Eames’ apartment-building.

* * *

 

 

A year and a half after the apocalypse Arthur travelled to New York. His hometown and the city where his humble house was located.

Not sure what to expect, he took his time. He hadn’t seen a living being in the past six months aside from some raccoons and a couple of seagulls. Of course the bugs had survived all.

Arthur’s backpack lacked food, though it was filled with some ammo, two Glocks, a blanket and a few kitchen utensils as well as roadmaps and a whole heap of lighters.

New York turned out to be better off than Los Angeles. There had been flooding at some point in the past as far as he could tell from the moss on the buildings and dried-up muddy slopes in alleyways.

At one point Arthur even found a broken shell on a window sill.

He continued his way across Time Square which had suffered some blows. The screens were no more and even a couple of traffic lights lied across the pedestrian crossing. Arthur avoided too much observing and instead walked the way home.  
He knew New York City on the top of his head.

Arthur took a break around noon, slipping inside a grocery store and finding some shaving utensils. He as well fetched along some batteries for his flashlight.

Back outside Arthur shaved himself in the sun, using the reflection of a nearby window which wasn’t broken too much.

It were the little things that kept him sane. He quite firmly refused to talk to himself and thus focused on tiny tasks such as shaving, writing, drawing, folding origami and leaving the crane birds wherever he went.  
It could be a foolish thing to do, for it made it easier to track him down… But he hadn’t seen a living soul in forever… and then frankly his life was pointless. He was alone. There was no goal.

Arthur arrived at his block an hour later and was surprised to see most buildings were still standing, though walls had crumbled and windows had shattered.  
The man rubbed a hand over his face when standing in front of his home. The door still securely locked, the window’s shutters still drawn as he’d left them.

He flung his backpack on the dusty asphalt and squatted down to dig in his rug-sack. Arthur rumbled through batteries, lighters, flashlights, toothbrushes and washing cloths before finally coming across the little pouch that carried money (which he hadn’t needed so far) and a set of keys.

Arthur dully noted he had Eames’ copy of his house-key, going by the faded pink nail-polish on the silver. He wondered when that had happened… surely Eames had swapped it a long time ago, giddy when Arthur had given him a key to his place in New York and thus smudging one of the copies with the annoyingly vibrant colour.

The front door unlocked effortlessly, though he had to use his shoulder in order to get it open, the wood stiffened by the flood and sun.  
Arthur went inside, trying the lights out of habit but of course they did not work. Retreating the flashlight from the back-pocket of his jeans, he closed the door behind him.

A second later Arthur noted he should lock the door, he did, and then as well retreated his loaded gun from inside his jacket.  
  
After having inspected his home three times, Arthur allowed himself to drop on his sofa, coughing when a cloud of dust puffed up.

Well, he was alone… but at least he was home… and considerably safe.

* * *

 

 

Arthur woke with the barrel of a gun to his head. He held his breath, not really that afraid, though startled.  
If this was how he was supposed to die, in his own house on his couch, so be it.

“Arthur?”

Arthur stirred at the voice, more so at the dialect and he straightened up in his seat not even minding the gun.

“Eames?”

“Bloody fucking hell, Arthur. You cheeky bugger you’re fucking alive!” Arthur smiled, his lips cracking at the strain of being pulled for the first time in over a year.

* * *

 

 

Apparently Eames had been living in Arthur’s home since the apocalypse had taken place. He said that he’d rather wait somewhere he knew Arthur would return, than go out and try to find him on the globe and chance to miss out because he was certain the point-man would be on the move constantly.

In the end, Arthur realized Eames had been very bright on that matter and he himself had not.  
Whereas Eames was supposed to be impulsive and led by emotion and Arthur was the rational thinker of the pair… they’d reacted opposite when it came to the end of the world. Go figure.

“I thought about Paris first.” Eames confessed, puffing on a hand-rolled cigarette which was a bit crooked at its end. There lacked a filter in the butt and thus the forger ended up picking tobacco from his tongue every now and then.

“Yeah?” Arthur asked, brushing a hand through his curly hair. It was chopped a bit messily as he’d been cutting it himself.  
Eames stroked his stubble thoughtfully before removing the cig from his lips and leaning back in the sofa.

“Yeah. I knew you truly fancied your apartment in Paris but then I remembered what you told me in Venice. Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you remember Venice?”

Arthur grimaced but nodded.

“Yeah, of course I do.”

* * *

 

 

_“Favourite place?”_

_Arthur frowned at Eames’ question but did focus his gaze at the ceiling to ponder about the answer.  
Eames who was lying next to him passed him the joint and Arthur took a deep drag from it._

_“I really like Venice, though not too fond of this hotel.” Arthur replied thoughtfully and Eames chuckled._

_“What?”_

_“Nothing…” The Brit began before continuing._

_“It’s just… you can’t possibly tell me a city is your favourite place… ever, is it?” Arthur pursed his lips at the question and took another deep drag of the joint, holding the smoke in his mouth as he passed it back to Eames._

_“What is yours?” Arthur asked around an exhale of smoke and Eames went into another giggle fit._

_“It’s too cheesy.” Eames admitted and Arthur rolled his eyes in a very uncharacteristic manner. His excuse was that he was high. Very much high._

_“What is it?”_

_“I can’t tell you.”_

_“Tell me.”_

_“Your arms.” Eames confessed breathily and after a long pause they both burst into laughter._

_“You’ve never been in my arms, Eames.” Arthur declared with a mock-frown._

_“Well, we’re in the same bed now so we might as well-“_

_“We’re in the same bed because the hotel manager was too much of a jackass to pay attention to detail and see that I specifically requested for two separate beds. Fuckin’ Venice hotels.” Arthur interrupted, his brow creasing._

_“Yeah, well… what’cha gonna do ‘bout it, hm?” Arthur shrugged at Eames’ question and instead decided to roll onto his side to face the Brit next to him. Eames busied himself with discarding the finished joint in the ashtray on his tummy, before putting the porcelain on the night cabin beside him._

_“My mouth tastes vile.” Arthur mumbled as Eames turned on his side as well so they lied looking at one another._

_“Let me check that.” Eames inquired before leaning forward slowly. Arthur waited, his eyes half lid to watch the Brit’s full lips open and then they were kissing. It was a slow and clammy drag of lips and tongue. The cannabis annihilated any presence of saliva, but neither of them cared._

_The warmth of dry lips and the bitter taste of their tongues matched nonetheless in their high buzz._

_It wasn’t until Eames sighed that Arthur pulled back and looked down._

_“I’ll take the couch.” Arthur said as he got up from the bed, only pausing in his movements when Eames grabbed a gentle hold of his wrist._

_“Don’t. I apologize… just, stay in bed, yeah?” Eames pleaded, already dragging Arthur back down as he lifted the covers with his other hand._

_They didn’t spoon exactly, though Arthur could feel Eames’ heat radiate through his back even with the inches of space in between them._

_It wasn’t until he noticed Eames’ breath slowing down, that he answered._

_“My home; New York.”_

* * *

 

  

“I thought you were asleep back then.” Arthur confessed.

“How could I ever sleep with you next to me?” Eames asked before he went on.

“Besides, why would you answer me when I was asleep… Did you fear I’d come surprise-visit you?” Arthur looked at Eames for a moment then and granted him a small smile.

“You kinda did.” And then.

“You look pale, Eames.”

“Yeah, caught a cold I did. It’s better than before though, getting better.”

“That’s good.” Arthur nodded approvingly and Eames finally returned his smile, albeit much wider.

“I broke my pinkie.” Arthur said after a peaceful quiet between them that had lasted for nearly ten minutes. Both men still shocked, yet very pleased to have found one another again.

“Oh?” Eames rumbled and Arthur held up his hand showing his permanently crooked pinkie of his left hand. The Brit snickered.

“Just like me then, but on the other hand… We can hook our pinkies, you know?”

“Wouldn’t that be like holding hands?” Arthur frowned.

“Well yeah… remember Amsterdam?”

Well _fuck_ … yes he did…

* * *

 

 

_In his defence, Arthur had been distracted by the lingerie-clad ladies, their skin dimly glowing underneath bright red lights._

_He hadn’t seen it coming and thus stirred when Eames’ gloved hand wrapped itself around Arthur’s._

_“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Arthur hissed, turning around to face his colleague as he pulled his hand from his grip.  
The Brit downright pouted._

_“Arthur, this is Holland… prostitution is legal… no one will care if two blokes are holding hands… Besides, it’s bloody three in the morning, innit? No one out.” Arthur scoffed._

_“It’s not about that… I don’t want to hold your hand.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because we’re not there-“ …yet- he’d wanted to add._

_“Where are we then, Arthur? Tell me where the fuck we are because I can’t take this anymore.” They stood still now, in the middle of a small, cobble-stoned bridge. The stones were glossy with the rain which had poured only half an hour ago. The various street and window-lights reflected around them._

_“We’re…” Arthur began, knowing it had been a very relevant question and not sure of the answer himself. The point-man looked away for a second before allowing his eyes to linger on Eames’ face again… His plump lips, straight nose and gorgeous grey-or-green eyes, depending on the light._

_“We’re in the Netherlands.” Arthur deadpanned after having taken Eames’ hand back into his, holding it tightly as he looked up at the man hopefully._

_‘Please let this go, please.’ He thought to himself._

_Eames snorted, then giggled and then they both started to laugh to the point where Arthur had to lean on the bridge’s edge and ended up nearly tipping over into the water. Eames caught him on time though and it all caused them to laugh even harder, their lungs aching at the lack of oxygen and their stomachs hurting because they had to hunch over constantly._

_Arthur would never forget Amsterdam._

* * *

 

 

Eames did hook his pinkie in Arthur’s and they continued to seat in silence together, in the dark, on the couch, in Arthur’s dusty living room.

“Do you want to go to bed?” Eames asked and Arthur took in the dark rings under his eyes… Eames must be tired. He looked much skinnier than he remembered him being.  
The apocalypse had worn him down much harder than it had Arthur. The point-man was glad to know that he was on the better hand though.

“Yeah, sure.”

They slept in Arthur’s bed that night. Their backs turned towards another, though one of them had initiated some ankle-over-ankle lock-hold.

Arthur was the first one to wake up the next day. Slivers of sunlight had crept inside through the tiny gaps of the window rollers.  
A ray landed perfectly on Eames lips, which were dry and agape, his breathing a bit ragged. His nose was red around the nostrils, skin broken because it had been wiped too often.  
Arthur could even- as he leaned closer to the man and sniffed his throat- smell the illness on him.

When the point-man pulled back, Eames’ grey-no, green eyes were open, albeit sleepily half-lid and rather puffy. Arthur noticed for the first time, brown specks in his irises and he wondered vaguely how he’d never seen that before.

He smiled.

Arthur returned the smile.

“Good morning.”

“Morning, Eames.”

“Remember Prague?”

He did.

* * *

 

 

_“You never told me you had a place here.” Arthur scowled as Eames led him into the sleazy apartment located downtown Prague._

_“Well, there’s a lot I haven’t told you, Darling.” Eames sniffled then before he burst into a sneezing fit and Arthur sadistically enjoyed the obvious agony on the man’s face._

_“Cannot believe you don’t take medication, ever.”_

_“It’s all a heap of mumbo-jumbo, really. It’s healthy for the body to fight colds… kind of an update for the immune system, innit?”_

_“It’s pointless suffering, is what it is.” Arthur spoke in clipped tones, cranky after a ten hour flight spent with the forger who annoyed him to bits. Eames still chose to take Arthur’s bags from him and lead him to the back of the apartment._

_“Settle in, I’ll make us a cuppa.” Eames spoke, refusing to bicker with Arthur. The point-man guessed Eames knew him well enough by now to know when Arthur wanted to pick a fight._

_He gave up though. Settled in the tiny bedroom and waited for his tea.  
Arthur didn’t like tea and would only drink it in Eames’ presence… The reason why he did this was still unknown to both men._

_They stayed a week in Prague, three days of which Arthur ended up taking care of Eames because the idiot had gotten so sick he could barely move out of bed to go to the toilet._

_“You smell.”_

_“I did wash myself, Arthur.” Eames frowned weakly, the blanket pulled up to his chin though hair clung to his forehead by the feverish sweat._

_“No, it’s not that. You smell sick. Medicinal.”_

_“I don’t take medicines.”_

_“Perhaps you’re right then?”_

_“About?” Eames asked as Arthur sat down on the edge of his bed and then grimaced as he placed a cool hand on the man’s forehead._

_“Your immune system is getting an update… I guess it’s fighting so hard it just goes to smell like drugs.”_

_“Now, I have done drugs before though.” The forger joked weakly and Arthur pulled back his hand, wiping it on the leg of his pants._

_“You take drugs but not medicines.”_

_“I’m a paradox, Darling. I do know how much you like those, after all.” Arthur scowled but did end up chuckling as he got up from the bed, leaving Eames to it._

_“You still smell sick.”_

_“Thank you, Darling.” Eames smiled sweetly, his cheeks bright red and his forehead yellowy pale. His eyes were hazed and his lips chapped, but he still managed to have his crackling voice express the gratefulness he felt for Arthur having taken care of him the past three days even though he could’ve left him on his own._

_“Sure.”_

* * *

 

 

“Don’t expect me to do the same for you this time.” Arthur muttered before getting up and leaving Eames to his own.

“You wound me.” Eames called after him but soon after he joined Arthur in the shower which magically enough worked, albeit the stream was weak and the water cold.

Eames ended up embracing Arthur from behind and Arthur allowed it just because he’d have to miss his obnoxious presence for over a year. Just because he’d been lonely.  
  
Just because he smelled faintly ill and Arthur couldn’t deny a sick man _some_ affection.

Just because it was this once.

Just because it was Eames.

* * *

 

 

“You’re not getting better.” Arthur said one night.

Both men were outside, it was midnight and they lied on the roof of the apartment building. Eames had a Magnum next to him on the asphalt, Arthur had a Glock in the back of his pants.

“Do you ever wonder where all the stars went?” Eames said instead as they looked up in pitch-black sky. There was only a moon to be spot in the distance, barely full, but Arthur hadn’t seen a single flickering star for the past five months now.

“Why aren’t you getting better?”

“It’s only been a week, Arthur. It mostly gets worse before it gets better, doesn’t it?” Eames’ hand crawled towards Arthur’s and he took hold of his crooked pinkie. Arthur pulled away.

“It’s been a week in my presence, you’ve been sick for longer before that, haven’t you?”

“Yeah-“

“You know I heard broadcasts about viruses in the beginning of the apocalypse when the radio-signals still worked.”

“Arthur, don’t be so worried. I know my own body and-“

“I’m not fucking worried, Eames.” Arthur scowled, insulted that the man would think so, and he scrambled to get up.

The forger looked pale in the moonlight and Arthur dared to guess that his weight was similar to that of Arthur’s scrawny body-type. This wasn’t Eames… not like he used to be.  
It was upsetting.  
For all they knew, they were the last human beings on this earth and he’d be damned if Eames dared to leave him on his own _again_.

Eames followed him over the roof and managed to stop him with a hand on his shoulder right before Arthur wanted to open the metal door that led to a staircase down.

“You can’t say that.”

“Let me go, Eames.”

“Remember Mombasa, Darling?… Remember Mombasa, yeah?” Arthur turned at that and punched the man in the face. Eames stumbled, dropping on the asphalt but he didn’t seem too much upset.

Arthur was panting, for some reason, and he ran downstairs two steps at a time trying not to remember Mombasa.

_Mombasa…_

* * *

 

_“Has anyone heard of the forger?”_

_Everyone in the warehouse simultaneously shook their heads at Arthur’s question. The point-man frowned, trying to keep his voice steady._

_They had completed the job (Eames included) over a month ago and in the meanwhile there had not been a sign of the forger.  
Eames was a pro in hiding, obviously enough, but when one wouldn’t be able to be located by Arthur himself and when one’s bank account would deflect the quarter million pay-check, there was a good chance that said person had been assassinated. _

_Arthur shouldn’t care._  
Eames was a good forger, perhaps the best, but other than that he just got on the man’s nerves with his cheeky smiles and lewd comments.  
He’d even had gone as far to come on to him in the bathroom once.

_Arthur had bit his tongue… to this day still denying that he’d kissed the man back before having shoved him away._

_Ever the attention-payer to details, Arthur remembered the drunken mumble in which Eames once had mentioned his ‘precious flat’ in Mombasa and thus this was Arthur’s next destination._

_The flight was long and tedious, and when he walked through the busy, colourful streets of Mombasa, sweating and dishevelled, he truly reconsidered his reasoning for hunting down a forger with whom he had no relations whatsoever._

_He just needed to accept his fucking pay check, is all…_

_Arthur found him within two days, somewhere in a district which rated high on the criminal-radar as well as gambling and all-around murders. Apparently Eames lived here.  
It explained the tan on his skin and the bleached strands in his normally dark-blond hair. Arthur even spotted a few light-blond stubs in the man’s three-day old beard. _

_“Arthur, what a lovely surprise.”_

_“Where the hell have you been, Mr Eames?” Arthur frowned instead, grabbing a chair and seating himself across from Eames who lounged in his sofa, not at all looking surprised that the point-man was in his home… had gotten into his home (the locks truly held no challenge)._

_“What, missed me?”_

_“I’ve been trying to transfer your money for at least three weeks now. Your account keeps rejecting and I can’t find any others.”_

_“You came all the way here to give me my money?”_

_“Obviously, 25% of the job’s success has been thanks to you.” Eames scoffed at Arthur’s words._

_“I’d say 45%... at the least.”_

_“Either way, we owe you a quarter million and I’m not willing to transfer this in cash.” Arthur stated matter-of-factly._

_“I’m flattered you’ve been so determined to find out if I’m still alive and kicking.”_

_“I merely am here to get rid of the money.” Eames laughed at that and Arthur’s brow creased as it always seemed to do in the forger’s presence._

_“Tell you what…” Eames began, leaning forwards with elbows on his knees. Arthur didn’t move back, refusing to cave._

_“You admit to me you were worried about me and came to see if I was still alive, and I’ll take the money from you and show you around my humble place.”_

_“What’s there to see in your place, Mr Eames?” And that’s most of what Arthur would ever say to admit Eames being right about him._

_“I’ve got a smashing bedroom, Darling.” He smirked._

_They had sex for the first time that same afternoon, in a colourful bed and only a half-broken fan in the corner of the room to keep them cool (which didn’t work AT ALL)._

_Maybe Arthur did admit to have been worried about Eames’ safety, but merely so because Eames had been cheeky enough to hold his orgasm hostage until he did so.  
Maybe Arthur did care a little bit about Eames as a person rather than a forger, but merely so because Eames had been adventurous enough to make him feel alive… for once._

* * *

 

 

Eames got more and more sick to the point where Arthur roamed the city to find medicines… anything he thought suitable for whatever it was that the forger was going through.  
Fever maybe… bad fucking fever at that.

He got back home around four in the afternoon and his stomach flipped at the sight of Eames in his bed.

“You look like shit.” Arthur muttered before walking farther inside and increasing the flame of the oil-lamp that hung to his right.

“Thank you, Darling.” Eames cracked as Arthur started picking out boxes and bottles of medicine out of the paper bag.

“I’m not taking medicines.” He murmured with a frown before he broke down in a gnarly-sounding coughing-fit.

“When you stop sounding like an espresso-machine, fine.”

“I don’t sound like a-“ Another fit of coughs and Arthur heard Eames’ lungs wheeze through the gurgling in his throat.

“I suspect you’re suffering from pneumonia. I’ve had to inspect a Doctor on a job once… I know what medication to use, so trust me on this one.”

Eames agreed after half an hour of bickering, simply because he was too tired to fight Arthur.

They lied in bed for the rest of the day. Eames shivering under the covers, half asleep and a tad delusional. And Arthur on top of the blanket, hands folded on his stomach as he looked up at the ceiling and listened to the forger’s wheezing lungs.

Arthur wasn’t worried.

That’s what he told himself.

* * *

 

 

Arthur woke the next day with a heavy arm thrown over his waist. The rattling breath of Eames gusted against his ear and the point-man peeked over his shoulder. Eames looked ghostly white, the bags under his eyes so dark that it looked like he lacked eyeballs in his sockets.

A bit freaked out, Arthur leaned to the night-cabin and turned on the oil lamp. The soft glow immediately soothed the atmosphere and he heard Eames stir behind him.

“Sorry.” Eames whispered, pulling his arm back and making Arthur feel cold.

“How do you feel?” Arthur asked, turning around to face the forger.

Eames smiled a bit, weakly, and then lied.

“Better.”

Arthur nodded, closing his eyes because it was easier to ignore the world in the darkness behind his eyelids.

He stirred when cold knuckles brushed over his cheek.

“You’re so beautiful, Arthur.”

“Be quiet.” He grumpily replied but opened his eyes nonetheless and took hold of Eames’ hand which rested on his cheek. He held it there… it felt cold.

“You’ve always been horrible with-“ A painful sounding cough followed, muffled by a hand over his mouth. The hand he’d pulled out of Arthur’s grip, and the point-man felt insulted by the movement… though it was irrational and quite hypocritical.

“Always been bad at receiving compliments, yea?” Eames continued and Arthur observed the man’s face. His stubble was dark on his skin, seeming to hollow his cheeks even more than they already were.

“Not with receiving… just, accepting them.” Arthur frowned and Eames chuckled at that.

“Accepting them from _me_ , specifically.” Eames rose a brow and Arthur had to admit the man was right.

“Remember Tokyo?” The forger said and Arthur huffed at that, allowing Eames to place a thumb on his dimple.

“Yeah.”

* * *

 

 

_“Stop being such a shithead, Eames!” Arthur shouted, his voice echoed in the empty streets, bouncing off the humble houses.  
A dog barked in the distance._

_“Arthur, for fuck’s sake, just let me-“ Eames took hold of the point-man’s sleeve who then proceeded to wildly shake his fingers loose._

_“No!” Arthur shouted again, his voice feeling strained because he wasn’t one to shout and vaguely noted this was the first time he’d ever shouted at Eames… first time he ever showed this much emotion to Eames, about Eames._

_The forger looked at a loss, his eyes wide and his brows curved so pathetically he reminded Arthur of the starved puppy they once found back in Stockholm on the streets. Eames ended up naming it Marine and smuggled her back to his home in London and by now the dog was fully grown and had found a new home._

_“Fine, Arthur! I just… Fine, you know…” He dropped his arms and after some awkward glaring from Arthur, they both continued to walk through the narrow alleys of Tokyo, Shibuya._

_“I still don’t understand what I did wrong.” Eames muttered after a while, ‘accidentally’ allowing his shoulder to brush against Arthur’s. The cold outside sobered up the shit-ton of sake in their system and the point-man replied after another three minutes of silence._

_“You can’t just woo me like a damsel in distress every second you’re with me and then as well punch a Japanese businessman in the face because he felt me up in a karaoke-bar.” A long silence followed, as if Eames truly found trouble understanding what was wrong with that._

_“I don’t see what’s wrong wi-“_

_“For fuck’s sake, Eames.” Arthur said, stopping in his tracks to face the forger. Eames scratched the back of his head, awaiting explanation._

_“I can take care of myself.”_

_“I know tha-“_

_“AND.” Arthur interrupted, pausing with a finger in the air… something he wouldn’t quickly do when sober. Except for rolling his hands around, he wasn’t one to gesture often or wildly._

_“Compliments lose their sense of genuineness when you not only fling them at someone continuously but as well to many others in your near environment.”_

_“God, it turns me on when you use big words even when smashed.” Eames groaned, moving towards Arthur and curling fingers around the nape of his neck. Arthur forgot to breathe._

_“Just as much as it doesn’t excite me to hear that English dialect grow thicker when you’re drunk.”_

_“Oh, Darling…” He purred and before Arthur knew, they were kissing somewhere in a ‘dodgy’ (as Eames would call it) alley in Japan at god-knows-what-time in the night._

_They never got through their arguments to the point where they’d gotten fixed or explained. The many cracks in whatever relationship they’d been having for half a decade were there to stay, hidden behind a poster, but never plastered to be taken care of completely._

_But Eames always managed to make Arthur forget._

_And even if his charming and courting annoyed the point-man on the surface and a wee bit below it… somewhere deeper inside it made him feel warm and safe and loved._

* * *

 

 

“I don’t want to go to sleep.” Arthur murmured a week later as he lied next to the living skeleton that was Eames.

The forger weakly smiled, the corners of his lips barely pulling up but more so twitching. His eyes, as always, fluttered close at the effort.

“Eames.”

“Yeah-yeah… m-awake.” He muttered, clearly having to use a lot of his energy to just keep his eyes open.

“We can’t go to sleep, Eames.” Arthur whispered and his voice –to his ears- sounded a bit hysterical. Eames seemed to think so to because he grimaced and hoarsely told him to come closer.

Arthur, for once, did move closer, self-handedly wrapping the man’s heavy arm around him.  
He nuzzled the forger’s throat and it took him ages before locating the soft heart-beat in the tip of his nose… he wasn’t sure who’s it was though.

“Remem-“

“Stop that, Eames. No more memories.”

“Remember Berlin?” Eames said and Arthur  unwrapped his arm, instead holding Eames’ cold hand, entwining their fingers.

“First time I embraced you… out of myself.” Arthur answered immediately. Eames’ lips quivered as he worded the memory.

“Remember Rome?” Arthur looked down at their hands and he played with Eames’ too-long fingernails.

“First kiss.”

“Remember Brussels…?”

“First time we shared a breakfast.” Arthur replied, knowing everything on the top of his head. He squeezed Eames’ hand but the man didn’t squeeze back. His breathing had gotten more laboured throughout the night. His eyes were dark and a bit dull.

“Remem-“

“I don’t want to go to sleep, Eames.” The forger gulped, his face scrunched in pain though Arthur wasn’t sure if it was because of his sore throat or because of Arthur’s plead.

“… Darling. I’m so tired.”

“Fuck off, Eames.” Arthur hissed instead and then shook the man when he closed his eyes.  
The forger woke with a start, his pale skin seemed almost grey in the dark of the room… see-through.

“Don’t you dare, Eames. Don’t you fucking dare.” Arthur whispered, his voice broke on the forger’s name but he refused to believe it was because of the prickling in the back of his nose.

“Just need to… rest my eyes.” Eames said and then pulled a face which wasn’t that funny but to see a hint of the old, vibrant, humorous, intelligent and handsomely charming man made Arthur’s heart skip several beats.

“Don’t.”

“Fine.” Eames said and kept his eyes open. Both men stared at each other, holding hands in _their_ warm cosy bed.

* * *

 

 

“I’m tired, Eames.” Arthur whispered. He didn’t know how long he’d been lying in the bed with him… maybe hours… maybe days.

At this point all he wanted was to close his eyes and curl up in the forger’s arms and then wake up the next day to a happy, healthy Eames ready to annoy him so much that he’d climb up walls and be able to slap him over the head with a dictionary (which had happened before in New York one time).

“Go to sleep then.”

“I don’t want to sleep, Eames.”

Eames, granted, looked a tad better. Still pale, still hollow-cheeked and chapped-lipped, but his eyes were clear and wide and soft and kind…

Arthur startled when Eames brushed his thumb over the palm of his hand, their fingers still entwined, for a painfully long amount of time now.

Eames smiled at him as he looked up and Arthur… well… Arthur wasn’t much of a smiler, but he ended up baring his teeth and full-on dimpling as he laughed for Eames, tears well-hidden behind the laugh-wrinkles around his eyelids.

“Oh Darling…” Eames gusted affectionately and Arthur only crawled closer because… whatever had emotionally constipated him in the past, whichever pride had stood in between himself and this forger… it didn’t matter anymore.

Arthur’s walls crumbled. All of them… every single little brick and stone falling into a heap of dust of past-regrets and bearing the most tender and vulnerable core in front of this man’s very eyes.

Going by the glint in Eames’ grey irises and wide pupils, he appreciated the sight.

“Close your eyes… Sweetheart.” Arthur shook his head with a frown and he had to gulp three times to keep the lump in his throat down before it crawled up to spill from his mouth and eyes.

“Please, Arthur… _please_ , close your eyes.”

“I don’t want to sleep, Eames. I don’t want to wake up and-and-“ The forger hushed him and once more smiled. He looked so much better than hours ago… so much more alive… maybe he was getting better after all… Maybe Eames had found strength within himself.

Maybe everything would be okay again.

After nearly twenty minutes of feeling Eames’ thumb brush in the palm of his hand, and listening to his soft breathing and seeing that his eyes remained awake and his smile maintained its liveliness and genuineness rather than the sadness that under-toned Arthur’s… the point-man finally allowed his eyes to slip shut.

The last words Arthur heard Eames say before exhaustion caught up with him were ‘ _Remember Paris_ ’ and it wasn’t a question as it had been all those times before and Arthur did…

He did remember Paris.

* * *

 

 

 _Paris was beautiful._  
  
Paris was Arthur and Eames.

_Paris was where they met and was where they’d seen each other last before the apocalypse._

_In a way it all had begun and it all had… kind-of ended with Paris._

_Paris was when Eames said those three words which were so often thrown about and had lost meaning because of its use by hormonal teenagers and hopeless housewives._

_“Take that back.” Arthur hissed, ready to slam the door in Eames’ face, who had somehow found out the address of Arthur’s apartment in France._

_Eames was soaked to the bone and as the rain still beat down on his head, Arthur felt no remorse to leave him out in the cold just because of what the man had said._

_“It’s true.” Eames concluded after a while. He had to raise his voice to break through the rain and Arthur just grew more furious._

_“Take it back, Mr Eames!” Arthur shouted then and for some reason his voice broke._

_“I can’t do that, Arthur. It’s true.”_

_“Don’t-“_

_“I love you, Arthur.”_

_“Goddammit Eame-“_

_“I love you, Arthur.” He sounded desperate… Out of breath._

_Eames came closer then, started to move in and blocking the door with the toe of his shoe when Arthur slammed it shut. The forger cursed at the ache, but swung the door open anyways._

_“I love you.”_

_“Fuck off.”_

_“And there’s nothing you can do about it.” Eames continued, shoving the point-man up the first wall in reach. Arthur was panting and then after a struggle that ended up with connecting a fist to Eames’ jaw, had the point-man pinned against the wall, their noses touching… he started to cry._

_Arthur was crying and it was the first time he’d cried since his childhood._

_“You can’t do this!” He shouted._

_“You can’t just play me like this, Eames! You bastard! You can’t just return after two years and expect us to pick up where we left and-“_

_Eames kissed him then, forcing his tongue into the man’s mouth, not minding that he tried to bite down on it. The kiss was harsh, crude, intrusive._

_Desperate._

_They fucked in the hallway, the front door still open and the rain blowing inside.  
Arthur cried during the whole thing and Eames kept saying how he loved this, how it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, how much he loved Arthur, everything about Arthur._

_Eames told him he had to remember all the things they’d done in the past._

_“Arthur please… Remember Venice, remember Amsterdam and Prague. Remember Mombasa, Tokyo, Stockholm. Remember Berlin and Rome and Brussels and New York.”_

_And then Eames told him to remember them as they were and as they would be.  
Eames told him if one of them were to ever die… he had to remember everything._

_“Please, Darling… please don’t forget us… remember today… Remember Paris… don’t forget what we’ve been… What we are.”_

_And then as Eames embraced Arthur, both shivering and half-naked and one of them crying and the other perhaps as well… Eames said._

_“Arthur…_

_Darling…_

_Remember us.”_

* * *

 

 

Arthur woke  five hours later because he could’ve sworn Eames had squeezed his hand in his sleep.  
  
But going by the cold state of the man’s body, the lack of breath, the lack of life in his eyes, to the dried tear on his cheek and the lack of a heart-beat no matter where and no matter how many times Arthur would check… the squeeze hadn’t happened.

Everything else though…

Everything Arthur could remember they’d ever done. Everywhere they’d ever been. Everything they’d ever said… that all had been true.

Arthur remembered everything.  
  
More so he remembered _them_ and all they were and all they could’ve been if the world had just not stopped spinning.

And Arthur did…

“I do… Eames…

… I do remember us.”

**END**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


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